The City Under the Skin by Geoff Nicholson Read Free Book Online Page B

said.
    â€œOf course you do,” she said.
    She did what he asked, as if she were being examined by a doctor, or posed by the instructor of a life drawing class. Wrobleski got up from his chair and moved very close to her. Yes, there was an odor rising from the body, onion and tired sweat, but Wrobleski didn’t care about that. He was staring very closely at the tattoos on the woman’s back.
    â€œWhen did you have this done?” he asked.
    â€œI didn’t have it done. It was done to me.”
    â€œWho by?”
    â€œI don’t know. I never saw his face. Could have been anybody. Could have been you.”
    Wrobleski declined to respond to that.
    She continued, “I was tied down, on a metal table. I don’t know where I was, a basement, I think. I’m not sure. Doesn’t matter much where it happened, does it?”
    â€œAnd you’ve been on the street since then?”
    â€œI was already on the street,” she said.
    â€œAnd do you know what the tattoo means?” he asked.
    â€œWhat do you mean by ‘means’?”
    â€œYou really are a philosopher,” said Wrobleski. “I mean that the tattoo is a map, right?”
    â€œYou’re smart,” she said. “It took me a while to realize that’s what it was.”
    â€œSo don’t you ever wonder what it’s a map of?”
    â€œI used to. Then I stopped wondering. Wherever it’s a map of, I don’t want to go there.”
    â€œMaybe it’s somewhere you’ve already been,” Wrobleski said, and he continued to stare, squinting in the flickering light, the explorer in the cave, confounded by the writing on the wall. He moved even closer and stretched out a hand as though to touch the woman, but his fingertips stopped an inch or so away from the surface of the skin, as if touching it might burn him, or worse.
    â€œYou ever think of getting it removed?” he asked.
    â€œNever quite had the budget for that.”
    â€œOr you could have something tattooed over it, something better, maybe something Japanese.”
    â€œCould I?”
    â€œUnless you think it’s too late for that.”
    It sounded like a threat. Genevieve said, “What are you going to do to me?”
    He looked at her with some sympathy. He accepted that was a fair question.
    â€œI don’t know,” he said plainly. “I haven’t decided yet.”
    â€œWhat are the options?”
    â€œI haven’t decided that either.”
    â€œMy glass is empty,” Genevieve said.
    He filled it for her.
    â€œLook, Genevieve,” he said, “you’re going to have to stay here for a little while. Out of harm’s way. Till I work out what’s best.”
    â€œBest for who?”
    â€œWho do you think, Genevieve?”
    She looked across at Laurel, who was staring at her, offering what might have been a smile of welcome.
    â€œYou’re starting a harem?” said Genevieve.
    â€œNo. I’m not doing that.”
    â€œA freak show?”
    â€œWell, we’re all freaks, aren’t we?”
    Suddenly Akim was there in the conservatory, standing beside Genevieve. He was holding a black silk robe, long, voluminous, embroidered with purple and red poppies, and he draped it softly over her shoulders, patting it around her with rather more attention than the job required.
    â€œFor now, Akim will take care of you,” Wrobleski said. “Akim’s good at taking care of things.”

 
    8. BACKLESS
    A long basement room, not quite a cell or dungeon, but small and dark, with one narrow, high, barred window, a row of a dozen or so single beds, a TV playing in the far corner, and on the wall a framed cartoon map of Manhattan, faux 3-D, with a goofy King Kong hanging off the Empire State Building. It was morning and Genevieve had slept well enough once Akim had finished taking care of her.
    She woke now because there was somebody standing in the